She sat, crouched together, by the corner of the hearthrug under the bookcase that supported the pig’s skull, and looked into the fire and up at Ann Veronica’s face, and let herself go. It was obvious that he had waited for her. His attitude toward her was purely intellectual, free of any sentimentality, utterly selfish. With a drawn cutlass in one hand and a cocked pistol in the other, Blueskin rushed up stairs.
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